Demons Undone: The Sons of Gulielmus Series (102 page)

“We’d make a great crime-fighting duo. We could call ourselves The Wolf and The Fallen One.”

He grunted. “Has a certain ring to it. Oh! Speaking of rings—”

There was a tentative knock on the cabin door, and obviously neither of them heard the visitor sneaking up.

She rolled her eyes. “Some supernaturals
we
are.”

“Well, you’re distracting. Give me time to adapt, and I’ll get back to being unassumingly dangerous.”

He opened the door and let Mama in.

She stood there on the doormat, looking around the room at everything in it but the people. The cabin was as quiet as a graveyard at night, and no one moved.

Sweetie couldn’t speak for Mark, but in her case, she was afraid to. If she moved, Mama would look at her.

Mama cleared her throat. Her nostrils flared. “You smell calm, baby girl.”

Sweetie shifted her weight and moved her gaze from the gap in the floorboard she’d been staring at to Mama.

Mama pulled her knit cap down farther and covered more of her graying hair.

“You can thank Mark for it,” Sweetie said.

Mama didn’t say anything for a long while. Then she took another step into the room and pulled off her mittens. “I know. And I think he knows how grateful I am. They weren’t happy, the wolves. They were angry that I didn’t let them do what needed to be done. They’d been bitchin’ at Calvin for weeks. You know how laid back he is, and I think they forgot why he’s alpha.”

“What’d he do?”

She knew her brother was scary. His goofball nature usually covered it up, but any person that pushed him deserved whatever punishment they got.

“No need to get into specifics,” Mama said, but Sweetie didn’t miss the twitch of her jaw. There must have been a fight.
Damn.
Over her? No matter what Mark said, she’d never believe she was worth it.

“Everything’s okay now,” Mama said. “We needed a shaking up anyway. Got too complacent down in our secluded little holler. Lost sight of how people in the world around us act. We’re not just wolves, but people, too.”

All Sweetie could do was nod.

“I know you’re probably upset with me for pushing you and teasing you about not taking a mate for so many years, but that’s just what we do,” Mama said. “Deep down, though, I knew you and Calvin wouldn’t settle. Scared me that y’all were going to go wild, but I guess y’all are braver than me. All those fairy tales your daddy read you when you were babies must have planted foolhardy ideas in your heads.”

Sweetie nodded some more. If holding out for true love was a foolhardy thing, so be it. Maybe Mama would never understand because she’d missed her chance at it.

As if reading her mind, Mark draped his arm around Sweetie’s shoulders, and said, “I think there’s something to be said for taking a leap of faith, even if you don’t know that’s what you’re doing at the time.”

He kissed the top of her head, and she grinned, casting Mama her best
take that, sucka!
look.

“Well. Times are a-changin’,” Mama said to Mark, but she kept her gaze on Sweetie.

Sweetie didn’t expect an apology, because Mama was right—they were all acting as wolves did. It was innate and instinctual, but Sweetie had known from the time she was a young girl that making the wolf happy at her own expense would mean a lifetime of discontent. Animals didn’t compromise, but people did.

“So, when’s the wedding?” Mama asked. “I assume there’ll be one. Those friends of yours would riot otherwise.”

“We were just talking about that.
Soon
.” Mark groaned, and Sweetie grinned even bigger because she was the reason for it. Maybe he had no qualms about sex, but she’d taken that s
ave them for our wedding night
retort to heart. A guy only got one first time, and she planned to make it one he’d never forget.

“Hope I’m invited,” Mama said.

Mark opened his mouth, and Sweetie gave him a stealth pinch on the ass before he could get his
justice-of-the-peace
rebuttal out.

“Sure,” she said, and patted where she’d pinched. “We’ll let you know the details.”

“Okay. Well. Call me. We can talk about color schemes and seating arrangements and … ”

Sweetie left Mark’s side to hug her mother, and backed her slowly toward the doorway as she patted her back and hummed, “Mm-hmm.”

She didn’t even notice that they’d reached the porch.

“Bye, Mama. Merry belated Christmas and stuff.”

Mama sighed. “Bye, baby girl.”

Sweetie closed the door, and Mark pulled her right back into his arms.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” he said.

“It was only easy because you were here.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have an easy life ahead of you, because I’ll always be near.”

His calming energy settled the anxious wolf in her down for a long, much-needed slumber. For now, Sweetie was just
woman
, and that woman was ready to surrender to her not-angel in full. She had no more protests left—only love.

“Of course you’ll always be near,” she whispered against his chest as he held her. “I know now you always have been.”

Holley Trent is a Carolina girl gone west. Raised in rural coastal North Carolina, she currently resides on the Colorado Front Range with her family. She writes sassy contemporary and quirky paranormal romances set in her home state.

An Angel Fallen
is the first story set in the Son of Gulielmus world that doesn’t feature a son (or daughter) of Gulielmus—look for more stories about
not
-angels, including Gulielmus himself, in the future. Catch up on other stories in the collection in the following order:
A Demon in Waiting
,
A Demoness Matched
(
Melt My Heart
anthology),
A Demon in Love
, and
A Demon Bewitched
.

See Holley’s complete backlist of paranormal and contemporary romances at her website,
http://www.holleytrent.com
. When she’s not on deadline, she boldly tweets under the handle @holleytrent.

Old things weren’t always useless. Take the Swiss watch Peter Blackstone wore. Tired leather strap, scratched face, older than most mortals. He had taken it off the wrist of an enemy, a dying
Wehrmacht
captain, in the icy forest of northern France in retaliation for the captain shooting Peter in the arm. Call it a souvenir turned taunting, old, reliable companion.

Not that the damned watch helped the traffic. A cold mist slowed the cars on I-84 outside La Grande, Oregon. Steep, pine-rich mountains rose on either side, funneling bumper-to-bumper vehicles into the narrow canyon. No gritting of Peter’s teeth or clenching of the steering wheel could stop that interminable timepiece from tick, tick, ticking down like a demolition bomb timer, reminding him how late he would be and the likely outcome of his tardiness.

His final assignment. He hoped.

Damn endless existence. He needed to complete this last assignment, the Meaningful Kill. Finally put an end to the monster he’d become.

His gut knotted. Being late for his assignment created too much attention. Better to stay inconspicuous. Hell, he wore a seat belt only so police wouldn’t have a reason to ticket him. Too much to explain.

The semi ten inches from his front bumper flashed its brakes. Peter slowed and negotiated one of the curves on the stretch of road. He rubbed his jaw and glanced again at the watch.

Hell, even now, he could smell the sweet-sharp scent of snow and blood and hear the moans from the not-yet-dead as bodies littered the forest that ugly night in the Ardennes. Men crying out for their mothers in English and German, the sounds blending into a nightmare of suffering, as they were frozen alive.

He glanced in the rearview mirror out of habit. Even after all these years, his dark brown hair would never turn gray, no matter how much he wished to age. It was the curse of the Indebted.

Screeching tires jolted him back to reality.
Hell
. He swerved and barely missed the braking semi. The driver behind him wasn’t as quick, and the pickup plowed into the back of Peter’s SUV, propelling it into the concrete barrier. Air whooshed out of his lungs as he jerked against the seat belt. His neck snapped forward as a ripping sensation seared pain into the base of his skull.

His SUV ramped the barrier, the undercarriage screaming against wet concrete. Peter’s entire world inverted, sky beneath him and rocks above, with only a thin casing of metal standing between his head and the scraping rocks.
Not good
. He threw his hands over his head and pushed against the charcoal upholstery in time for the airbag to erupt from the steering wheel. His ribcage exploded in sharp, hot agony that sent fireworks of light bursting in his vision.

After that, it was as if his own car waged a personal assault on him. But the blade would be no match against the airborne missiles of glass piercing his face. To make things even more interesting, the SUV righted itself but then jolted halfway down the mountain slope.

Peter’s head snapped forward and back, and a loud crack reverberated from his lower back, out of tune with the groans and screeches emanating from the nearly obliterated vehicle.

An eternity later—he didn’t use the term lightly—the crumpled metal death trap came to rest at the bottom of a muddy embankment, the yellow hazard lights flashing, horn blaring … and upside down.

Stunned, Peter dangled from the seat belt. His ears rang. His skull throbbed. His left arm had bent into an unnatural angle against the door handle.
Not good at all
. A normal human would be dead by now. Unfortunately, he still lived.

Hell. He was most definitely going to be late for that appointment.

The knife strapped to his lower leg pulsed, warming up in hungry anticipation for the assignment. That damned, cursed weapon tied to his damned, cursed existence.

The sky and ground continued to spin in his vision. Over the hum of his ringing ears, liquid drizzled onto the fabric ceiling, a constant tapping sound in the sudden silence. One touch to his head revealed a chunk of skin partially detached from his skull.

Steam hissed from the engine as the tangy-sweet scent of antifreeze mixed with burnt oil. Taking a deep breath, he dragged fumes into his burning lungs. From far away, voices drifted down to him.

Pain lanced through his neck when he tried to see out the window. He had to fix that broken arm.

Damn, this is going to hurt.

With his right hand, he grabbed his left wrist and pulled. His guttural howl echoed in the destroyed car as he forced arm bones back into place, grinding the broken ends against each other. He squeezed his hand over the injury. The arm had started to knit, but he needed the bones to heal even faster. His body would repair the life-threatening injuries first and his head and broken bones second, but it would take way too much time.

The whine of his car’s smoking engine and drone of the horn muffled the shouts of bystanders scrambling down the hill.

Have to get out of here
.

He attempted to exit the car, leaning against the mangled door, but his numb legs wouldn’t move. They’d lodged between the pedals pushed in by the crumpled engine block and the steering column. Instinctive fear rose up. Trapped again. He forced himself to relax while suspended upside down. In the distance sirens wailed.

So much for being inconspicuous.

Damn it. He needed to stash the knife before anyone saw it.

Reaching his unbroken arm down—no, up—to the pinned, insensate leg, Peter unclasped the top strap of the holster. One more strap. As he strained against the seat belt, pain erupted in his lower back, but now he could touch the lower clasp.

The voices of his rescuers drew closer, urging him to work faster. Frantic, he brushed the buckle with this fingertips and opened the clasp. Fresh sweat beaded his brow, and his jaw ached from clenching.

The strap slid free of the buckle, and the knife fell to the roof with a dull
thunk
, landing in pooled blood. The physical agony of separation from the weapon hit him like a punch to his gut. The yearning to connect with the blade burned with a searing inferno in his chest.

Focus
.

Stretching, he grabbed the knife and shoved it into the seam of the passenger seat.

He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain swamped him.

• • •

It had been one month and twelve days since her last vision.

Allison La Croix pulled her hair from the jacket collar, straightened her scrubs, and closed the car door. Hefting her overnight bag onto her shoulder, she paused and inhaled the cold, early spring air. Could she do it today? Could she walk through the doors of Grande Ronde Hospital’s emergency department?

Every day when she passed through those sliding glass doors, apprehension mounted like a needle tip poised just above her skin. Her right hand still throbbed with residual echoes of electrical fire on her fingertips from her last connection. How long could she avoid touching anyone skin to skin? How long could she avoid triggering her twisted gift? The intervals between her visions were growing shorter, but she had no idea why. How many more could she handle?

With a determined breath, she entered the ER at 7:55 a.m., right on time. Ambulance bays vacant? Check. No screaming family members outside the ER door? Check. No
whump, whump
of chopper blades coming in for a landing? Double check.

Maybe today will be a good day
.

She twisted her long hair into a clip as the familiar flowery scent of chemical disinfectant wafted over her. As Allison reached the registration desk, she waved at a plump, smiling, older woman.

“Morning, Doctor Al,” the woman said.

“Hi, Marcie. How’s it been so far?”

The receptionist held up the latest bestselling medical thriller. “Real calm. I’ve had time to catch up on some reading.”

Allison smiled at her choice of words. Doctors and staff
never
said the “Q” word when they came onto shift. Merely thinking the word “quiet” seemed to magically attract multi-victim traumas, drug-seekers, and large quantities of cardiac arrests.